


A Life Well Spent

by greenery



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, Fluff, M/M, all hurt and barely any comfort, im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-07-15 07:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16058180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenery/pseuds/greenery
Summary: The year is 1519, and Ezio and Machiavelli travel to Amboise to spend Leonardo's last days by his side.





	1. May 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing this out of pure spite because the way Leonardo's death is dealt with in the "Revelations" book doesn't do their relationship justice.
> 
> The title is taken from a quote by Leonardo: "As a well-spent day brings happy sleep, so a life well spent brings happy death."

The two men rode in mutual silence. Everything worth saying had been said, no word left unspoken, and now they focused all their energy on reaching their destination in time. The journey had lasted nearly a week, the road from Firenze to Amboise seemingly endless and dusty ahead of the two riders as well as behind them. A greyish-brown veil of dust lay upon their clothes and the horses’ fur.

When the younger man started talking, the other flinched, as if suddenly awoken from a dream.

“If my maps are correct – and I hope they are, they cost a fortune – we should reach the Château any minute now. _Dio mio_ , Ezio, what has gotten into you? Were you asleep?”

“As good as.”

“Well, I’m terribly sorry for waking you up. What I was saying was that we should reach the Château de Clos Lucé any minute now. I suppose it’s still hidden behind that hill over there.”

Ezio straightened his back and yawned.

“ _Sí_ , Niccolò, I heard you the first time. Are we expected? I would kill for a warm meal and a proper bed. A glass of wine or two…”

“I thought you gave that up years ago. I sent a courier the night I picked you up, he should have arrived there a few days ago. And even if not, I’m sure they can provide us with two beds and food. We’re two of Leonardo’s oldest friends, after all. At least you are.”

“I haven’t seen him in years, just like you. And if your information is correct, I do not really want to see him now. I mean, I do, of course I do. But it … it never gets easier.”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Niccolò Machiavelli, shaking his head, “but it is our duty to pay him a last visit. In just a few years we will wish for the same from our friends.”

“ _Sí, lo so, lo so_. But still, I just want to turn this damned horse around and go home.”

“You should have thought about that earlier – look, the Château! _Magnifico_!

Indeed, a stately home had appeared from behind a green hill, not very big, but Ezio couldn’t deny that it was beautiful nonetheless, red bricks accompanied by white ones, and surrounded by lush gardens. Although they were still about a quarter of a mile away, the smell of flowers lingered heavy in the air. Not too far away, Ezio could also make out a vineyard, covered in the golden light of the setting sun. It reminded him of home.

 

He wished he could have taken Sofia and the kids with him, but when Machiavelli had suddenly stood on their doorstep in the early morning hours about a week ago, everything had been so abrupt and rushed, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.  

Machiavelli’s urgent knocks had woken the entire house and Ezio had opened the door very hesitantly, dressed only in a linen tunic, hair tousled, sword in his right. Five minutes later, after Machiavelli had quickly revealed the reason for his nightly visit, he had rushed back to the bedroom, to change and to say goodbye to Sofia, who had looked at him with sleepy eyes, her loosely braided hair just as unkempt as Ezio’s. He hadn’t had much time to explain and probably left her with more questions than answers.

“Kiss the kids from me. Tell Flavia to practice her reading. I’ll be back in a month, at most.”

“Ezio.” She clung the blanket to her chest. “I don’t understand. If you want to visit Leonardo, go, but why now? In the middle of the night? Like this?

Ezio had frozen, unprocessed thoughts flooding his mind.

“He’s … not well, Sofia.”

At this, she had silently gotten up and returned a few moments later with a bottle of their own wine.

“Maybe he’ll enjoy the taste of his homeland. If he is still, you know, able to -“

Ezio had felt a sudden sting in his eyes and quickly pulled her into a tight embrace, so she wouldn’t see.

“He will love it. I love you. I will be back soon.”

A kiss, sleepy lips. It seemed like an eternity ago.

 

And now they were here, just a few meters away from facing one of Ezio’s worst fears. Of course he had known that this moment would come eventually. But not so soon.

They followed the path up to the Château and when they finally reached the house, they were already expected by a handful of eager servants.

“Welcome to the Château de Clos Lucé, Monsieur Machiavelli, Monsieur Auditore,” said one of the boys with a heavy French accent, “may we take your horses? Your bags?”

For a moment, Ezio was taken aback by so much hospitality, until he remembered that the Château belonged to King François, after all, and so did the servants, probably.

Machiavelli had already dismounted his dirty horse and handed the reins to one of the boys.

“Thank you very much. I suppose you know why we are here?”

“ _Oui, monsieur_. I will lead you to the Maestro right away, if you wish to.”

Machiavelli turned around and looked at Ezio, one eyebrow slightly raised. Groaning, Ezio climbed out of the saddle as well.

“Yes,” he proclaimed, his voice sounding a lot more confident than he felt. “Lead us to the Maestro da Vinci.”

 

The inside of the house seemed to be a lot roomier than Ezio would have guessed from the outside, and also a lot darker. Everywhere, servants were busy lighting up candles to fight the impending dawn. They were led through what had to be Leonardo’s workshop, and the sheer atmosphere of the room, although deserted, made Ezio’s heart beat faster. A few paintings were placed on easels, but none of them looked like it was the result of Leonardo’s steady hand.

A flight of stairs led them to a heavy wooden door. Their guide knocked without hesitation.

“Maestro da Vinci? Your visitors have arrived. Monsieur Machiavelli and Monsieur Auditore from Italy,” he called through the closed door. Ezio doubted that any sound could pervade a door as solid as this one, and indeed, no sound was to be heard from the other side.

“ _Monsieur_?” the boy called again, this time louder.

“Yes,” came finally a voice, followed by some words Ezio could not understand. The boy neither, apparently, because he cast a quick, uncertain look at the two men, before he eventually opened the door a little and stuck his head inside the room behind it.

“Maestro da Vinci, here a two –“

“ _Sí, ragazzo_ , are you daft? I said invite them in! For God’s sake, open the door properly, I want to see my two oldest friends!”

Ezio swallowed and shifted his weight to the other leg. This didn’t sound like Leonardo was in a bad state at all. Blushing, the boy pushed the door completely open, made a vague gesture into the room and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _vieille barbe_ , before he disappeared into the depths of the house.

Ezio slowly stepped over the threshold, followed closely by Machiavelli.

 

Like the rest of the Château, the room was quite large, the ceiling high and wood-panelled, but only dimly lit by some candles, a dying fire and the meager remains of the light of day. Although the windows were opened widely, the all too-familiar stench of illness lay thick in the air. A huge four-poster bed, covered with a crimson canopy, caught Ezio’s eye. In it, tucked in under a down quilt, despite the warmth of May, and with a few pillows supporting his back, sat Leonardo. He looked … _old_ , and Ezio couldn’t help but wonder if he himself looked just as ancient to his kids or, God beware, Sofia.

He immediately lost his ability to form coherent thoughts and worry about such nonsense when the familiar smile he hadn’t seen in far too long, lit up Leonardo’s whole face. God, that smile.

For a moment they just stared at each other, taking in the sight, comparing it to the misty image of the young men in their memories. Machiavelli broke the silence before it became uncomfortable.

“Leonardo, _vecchio mio_ – how are you?” he grinned brightly, acting as if this was just an ordinary visit between old friends, “thank you for inviting us!”

Leonardo’s smile faded and as usual, his honesty caught Ezio off guard.

“Not good, Niccolò, not good. Thank you for coming. Please, come closer, have a seat. Oh, you reek! I’m afraid I cannot offer you any dinner, I don’t eat much these days. But I am certain something can be arranged with the kitchen –“

“Oh there’s no need for that,” Machiavelli interrupted him. “We don’t want to be a burden. A glass of wine and we will be content, _sí_ , Ezio?”

“ _Sí_ ,” assured Ezio quickly and coughed a little to cover up the rumbling in his stomach. Leonardo squinted at him.

“You don’t sound too well either, Ezio. You should see a _dottore_ soon.”

“Oh nevermind, it’s that damn chest infection, I’ve been carrying it with me for years.”

“Well, I suppose we all don’t get any younger. And maybe that’s for the best. Please, sit. It’s been so long, you must have a lot to tell me.”

“And so do you,” said Ezio, who had grabbed the nearest chair and settled down at Leonardo’s bedside, “Leaving us behind in Firenze to start a new life and live with the king of Francia –“

“I don’t exactly live with him. Although he visits me quite regularly, _sí_. And how can you talk about me leaving you behind, as if that is not what you have done to me all our lives.”

Ezio blushed. _Maledizione!_ How could Leonardo still do that to him, merely five minutes into their first meeting in years?

Machiavelli had sat down at the other side of the bed.

“So,” he said, “I take it you have enjoyed the past three years?”

“Immensely. I cannot complain at all. I have taught plenty of very bright students and worked for plenty of very wealthy patrons. Life has been most kind to me and I –“

Suddenly, the door swung open and a small, middle-aged woman entered the room, hands on her hips.

“I am sorry, _Monsieurs_ , but the Maestro needs to rest now. If you will follow me, I will lead you to your rooms.”

Ezio and Machiavelli looked at each other in surprise. It could be no later than seven o’clock and the sun had not even set completely.

“But we have only just arrived, we came all the way from –“

“It’s no use, Andrea knows no mercy,” whispered Leonardo, “Thank you Andrea, I do feel quite tired,” he added, louder now.

While Machiavelli moved his chair back to the table, Leonardo winked at Ezio and touched his hand for no more than a second. Ezio’s heart skipped a beat.

“I will see you in the morning. Have a good night. And again, thank you for coming.”

 

Led by Andrea, Ezio and Machiavelli took on another flight of stairs until they reached the guest rooms in the attic. With a confident _Bonne nuit_ she left them alone in front of their rooms.

“This was a lot shorter than I had hop- expected,” said Ezio, one hand already on the doorhandle.

“To be honest, he did look very weak. I’m sure it’s for the best. We are here now, and only that counts. _Buonanotte_ , Ezio. Enjoy your bath.”

Machiavelli disappeared behind the wooden door.

“ _Buonanotte_ ,” murmured Ezio and entered his own chamber.

Compared to the rest of the house, it was small, but the bed looked soft and inviting. There was a desk and, like Machiavelli had predicted, a separate room with a bathtub, the air humid and steamy. _Finalmente!_ Ezio quickly got rid of the dusty and smelly clothes he had lived in for a week now and tossed them in a corner.  With a content sigh, he slid into the water.

He closed his eyes and almost immediately, Leonardo appeared in front of them. What had that wink meant? That touch? His hand dry, but oh so soft? Suddenly, he was twenty-two again, racing across the rooftops of Venezia, tirelessly hunting for justice and the hearts - and bodies - of many beautiful men and women. Firenze, Venezia, Roma, Kostantiniyye – he hadn’t known many constants throughout his life, but Leonardo had been one of the few. His friend at first, then his lover, always there, always reliable, always ready to stitch him back together. They hadn’t been in contact much ever since he had met Sofia, though. Maybe he should have written more often. But such sentimental realisations were of no use now, it was too late.

The water slowly turned cooler and Ezio shivered. Without much elegance, he climbed out of the tub, put on a clean linen tunic that had been laid out for him and sat down at the desk to write a short note for Sofia. She knew about Leonardo and him, of course, she could read him like a book, and he had never been very good at keeping secrets.

 

>  
> 
> _Sofia, my love,_ he wrote.
> 
> _We have finally arrived in Amboise. I still cannot say how long we will stay. Maybe I will already be on my way back when this reaches you. Although, of course, I hope that I will be able to spend a few days with Leonardo. You know how much I have missed him._
> 
> _I  miss you, already._
> 
> _I hope, the children are well._
> 
> _Love, Ezio_

 

He would send it off first thing in the morning, but for now, he couldn’t wait to finally collapse into the bed that smelt of clean linen and wood and just a hint of lavender oil.

He fell asleep the moment his head touched the soft pillow.


	2. Night

Ezio’s sleep came to an abrupt end when several muffled knocks echoed through the room. It took him a while to get used to the unfamiliar dark surrounding, schemes of wooden furniture illuminated only by cool moonlight. He felt terrible. Years and years of only being able to sleep sporadically between missions had made him value a good night’s rest, and he hated when this basic human right was so rudely taken from him. The knocking grew more urgent. Who could it be, at this hour of the night? Machiavelli? Had something happened to Leonardo?

“ _Sí, sí,_ ” he murmured, voice and body weary, as he rose from the warmth of the bed. His big toe got caught on the corner of the old Persian carpet and he stumbled towards the door.

“ _Merda!_ Yes, I’m coming!”

He unlocked the door, already preparing to give whoever dared to disturb his well-deserved sleep a proper dressing-down. Still grumbling, he tore the door open.

“ _Cosa?_ What in the fucking world could possibly –“

His voice died a quick death when he recognised the slightly scared face in the dark hallway.

“Leonardo? I’m sorry, I –“

“I am sorry. I shouldn’t have woken you so harshly. But this is a matter of some urgency.”

Ezio rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“What is it? You want to come in?”

“No.” A smirk lit up Leonardo’s sunken face. “I want you to come with me. I’ve got something to show you. Do you happen to have some wine with you?”

Ezio froze for a second. Their leaving yesterday (or today? There was no way of knowing the actual time) had been so hasty that he had completely forgotten about the bottle Sofia had handed him before their departure in Firenze.

“ _Sí,_ I’ve got it somewhere here, give me a moment.” He rummaged through the saddlebags he had carelessly thrown over a chair.

“Quick!” hissed Leonardo from the corridor. “If anyone catches me wandering around the house at this hour – God forbid!”

“Found it!” Ezio presented the bottle with a grin. “My very own. Oh, and Sofia’s, of course.”

“Yes, yes, you can tell me all about that later.” Leonardo grabbed Ezio by the sleeve and pulled him into the hallway, simultaneously checking left and right for potential disturbers.

“All clear,” he nodded towards Ezio, who could vaguely feel distant memories of long gone, clandestine nights in Italy resurfacing in the back of his head.

“Leonardo, what –“

“ _Andiamo!_ And quiet!”

With a sigh, he closed the door carefully and when he turned around again, Leonardo was already at the end of the hallway, about to climb up a steep staircase that looked like it lead to an attic, or possibly another, less luxurious guest room.

“Leonardo, don’t you dare,” Ezio whispered. “You’re too weak!”

The only reply he got was a hissed “Psst!” and a long, bony finger pointing frantically into the direction of Machiavelli’s room. Ezio suppressed another sigh and made his way past Machiavelli’s door and towards Leonardo, who was impatiently waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. Bright, blue eyes met brown ones and a “Now, if you’d be so very kind, my knight in shining nightdress?” was whispered.

“Oh shut up, old man,” said Ezio, put an arm around Leonardo’s waist and half pushed, half pulled him up the stairs. The touch was unfamiliar and awkward, the artist so skinny beneath his tunic that Ezio half expected to hear the ugly sound of snapping bones with every step. It didn’t come, though, and both men reached the top of the staircase unharmed and only a little out of breath. Before them was a simple, wooden door. Triumphantly, Leonardo pulled a key out of the depths of his pockets.

“No lockpicking necessary,” he proclaimed and opened the door. They stepped outside and Ezio let out a sharp breath he had held in without realising.

Above them was the sky, dark and endless, sprinkled with thousands of stars. The moon hung low and bright and the air was enriched with the sounds of cicadas, each one trying to chirp a little louder than the others. A light breeze whistled past the two men, and if Ezio would have believed in perfection, this very moment would have come close to it. As always with Leonardo, he felt the need to say something insanely clever.

“A full moon,” was all he managed.

“Nearly. One more day.”

“Oh.”

Smiling, Leonardo sat down on a marble bench.

“This is my refugium,” he said, “Well, actually it was intended as a simple roof terrace for the king’s guests, but I have claimed it for myself.”

He gestured at an easel and a silvery tube on a wooden stand, both placed near the banister and overlooking the park-like landscape beneath. Ezio observed the tubular object closer.

“What on earth is this?”

“Oh it doesn’t have a name yet. Go ahead, point it at the moon and have a look through it.”

Ezio did as he was told and immediately stumbled backwards.

“Leonardo what –how –the moon?”

“Well, basically there are two glass lenses in there and they work together like, like...” he searched for the right words. “Like regular glasses, but obviously much stronger. They magnify objects that are hundred, if not thousands of miles away in the sky and on the earth.”

“ _Incredibile!_ How did you possibly think of this?”

“Oh Ezio, I could go into detail, but you wouldn’t understand half of it. And besides, are we here to discuss physics and the moon?”

Ezio risked another, more thorough look through the object.

“I don’t know what we’re here for,” he mumbled absent-mindedly. “It was you who woke me and dragged me up here for whatever reason.”

“I politely asked you to come and _you d_ ragged me up those stairs. And not in a very gentle manner, I might add. But enough of that. Come and sit with me. Enjoy the night. For it might very well be my last.”

Reluctantly, Ezio turned his back to the magnifier and sat down next to Leonardo.

“Don’t say that,” he said, and added after a short pause “I am sure you still have many months and even years ahead of you.”

He knew he didn’t sound especially convincing and Leonardo let out a bitter laugh.

“Tell that to my doctor. No, you don’t need to. I can feel it myself. I’m growing weaker by the hour. My days are numbered, I am certain.”

Ezio didn’t know what to say to that. Leonardo was probably right, and he was undeniably in a bad state. His eyes still bright, but sunken nonetheless, his skin greyish and paper-thin. Yes, he looked like a dying man, but Ezio would never admit that. He couldn’t.

Leonardo broke the heavy silence.

“Didn’t you bring me a gift?”

Ezio had to think for a moment, before he remembered.

“Oh, _sí!_ ”

He pulled out the wine and presented the label to Leonardo.

“Our very own. 1514. A good year, very rich harvest. It is pretty sweet and light, but there is also a certain sourness to it.”

“Sounds good enough to me.” Leonardo seized the bottle and took a sip. “Excellent. My very first 1514 Auditore. And probably also my last. That reminds me – how are your children doing?”

“Oh Leonardo, you cannot imagine! They grow up so fast, Flavia will turn six next week, and Marcello is four. Can you believe I never wanted to have a family? And from the day Flavia was born, all I wanted was to see her grow and be with her. They change everything, Leonardo. It’s a shame you never met them. They’re brilliant!”

 “I’m sure they are,” chuckled Leonardo.

“Now that I think about it, it’s quite sad I only have two of them.”

“Two that you know of. I’m sure there are dozens of little Ezios running happily around Firenze, Venezia and Roma. Well, not so little anymore.”

“ _Sí_ , everything else would surprise me. But I will never meet them.”

Leonardo leaned backwards to rest his head on the brickwall behind them and watch the stars.

“Maybe that’s for the best. You’ve got an heir now. Two of them. And look at me – I have no one. I will hand some of my paintings down to Salaì, but he will probably sell them before my body is cold. As for the rest –“

“I can keep some safe,” offered Ezio, although the thought alone felt heavy and so, so distant.

“ _Grazie, amico mio._ We will talk about it tomorrow. Actually -,” he pulled a little package out of the folds of his tunic, “there is something I want to give you right now. And wanted to do so for a long time.”

He handed the parcel over to Ezio, who realised that it was not really a package, but in fact a stack of folded parchment papers, held together by a red string. He untied the knot and carefully unfolded the paper that lay on top.

“Oh,” he said, and could already feel the blood rising to his cheeks.

The details of the sketch were hard to make out in the faint moonlight, but there was no doubt of what he held in his hand. From the corner of his eye, he could see Leonardo casting a quick glance at the paper.

“I know you always wanted to see them, and I never let you. It never felt right. They were my part of you, my only possibility to remember you when you were gone for weeks or months on end.”

Ezio swallowed hard.

“Well, I guess there are worse ways to remember me,” he said as he flicked through the other pages.

“I’ll drink to that.”

“Leonardo, these are splendid! I –thank you.”

“Give them to Sofia, so she knows what she has missed.”

“She hasn’t missed a thing!” protested Ezio and grabbed the bottle from Leonardo’s hands. “Experience is attractive, you know.”

“ _Sí, sí,_ I am sure of that.”

“And heaven knows what you see in that boy Salaì…”

“Ha, if only I knew! Maybe I’ve grown shallow in my old age.”

Ezio took another look at the sketches.

“My dear friend, you have always been shallow!”

“I guess I have,” mumbled Leonardo, and suddenly Ezio could feel the weight of his head on his shoulder.

For a while, no one said anything and Ezio desperately tried to take it all in, the sky, the cicadas, Leonardo’s faint smell. He wanted to remember this forever. No, he wanted it to stay like this forever. Not only a memory that would grow weaker day by day, but a life like this. Leonardo by his side. What had gone wrong all those years ago? Why had he left him? The answer was obvious, but still…

He slowly let his head fall to the side until his cheek came to a rest on Leonardo’s hair. There was a little _clank_ when Leonardo set the wine bottle aside and cupped Ezio’s right hand with both of his.

“We led a good life, Ezio.”

“We did. We do.”

“There is still so much I want to tell you. So much I need to show you.”

“Then do.”

“It’s too late, _scemo._ I am tired. I just wanted you to know that –that I thoroughly enjoyed my time on this earth and that I am more than grateful to have spent so much of it with you. There, I said it.”

Ezio’s throat suddenly felt very tight.

“Don’t talk like that, Leonardo. And I love you too. Said it.”

There was a muffled sound from Leonardo, but Ezio couldn’t determine whether it was a sob or a snicker, but whatever it was, it soon turned into silent snoring. _Merda_. The night was far too chilly to spend it up here, especially in Leonardo’s condition, not to mention his own, bare feet. With a heavy heart, Ezio lifted his head. Leonardo didn’t wake up, but Ezio could impossibly carry him secretly through the whole house, down to his bedroom. He grabbed the artist’s shoulder and shook it gently.

“Leo! Leonardo!”

“Hm?”

“It’s too cold.”

“What?”

“Let’s get you back to bed.”

“Yes. Alright.”

Ezio wasn’t sure if Leonardo really understood him, but at least he managed to stand up on his own, although shaky, and to sling his arm around Ezio’s shoulders. Again, Ezio grabbed his waist and together they left the roof, sneaked past Machiavelli’s and Ezio’s chambers, down another flight of stairs, and then another ( _Dio,_ how many stairs did this house have?), until they reached Leonardo’s room. With his free hand, Ezio opened the door and gently pushed Leonardo inside. When they reached the bed, he was almost completely asleep again. Ezio laid him down and covered the frail body with a thick duvet. As he turned to go, Leonardo grabbed his hand with surprising force.

“No. Don’t go.”

“Leonardo, I have to, what will the people think?”

“Ezio…” Leonardo’s voice was no more than a whisper, and his eyes were closed once again. He was breathing quietly, but steadily. Ezio shivered. The room was cold. He closed the window and hesitated for a moment, taking a last look at the barely visible silhouette beneath the bulky blanket, before he finally made his way to the door.

“ _Buonanotte,_ Leonardo.”

He expected no answer of course; the familiar, silent snoring was enough.

It was not until he reached his own bed that Ezio realised how exhausted he was as well. Not just his body, but his mind, too. The thought of losing Leonardo had always seemed so distant, almost absurd, but after this nocturnal excursion there was no way of denying the truth. For the second time tonight, Ezio let himself fall into the soft sheets, but he doubted that he would get much more sleep.


	3. May 2

Merely four hours later, he was woken again, and again by several knocks on the door, only this time less gentle.

_O per l’amor di Dio._

The knocks were soon joined by an agitated voice.

“Ezio! Ezio, are you awake?”

_Machiavelli._

“No!” Ezio called back and turned around, now facing the wood-panelled wall. He tried to focus on the whirls and patterns embedded in the dark wood, but to no avail.

“Ezio! It’s time!”

Time for what? It was still dark outside, too early for breakfast, too early to even be awake… Suddenly, he heard the door open and hurried footsteps behind his back. _Merda._ He must have forgotten to lock the door last night. Last night? Blurry images appeared before his eyes and seemed to embed themselves into the wood. The moon, abnormally large, almost frightening, a shared bottle of wine, some rather suggestive sketches…

“Good God, Niccolò, what is wrong with you?” Ezio grumbled into his pillow.

“Get up, _pigrone!_ It’s Leonardo, he’s gotten worse.”

_Leonardo._

By the sound of it, Machiavelli was now crossing the room and tearing the tiny window above the desk open. Ezio tossed himself around again, his fatigue gone. He leaned onto his elbows and looked at Machiavelli, who was now watching something outside and for some reason already perfectly dressed. Whatever was happening in front of the house seemed to be quite astonishing, as Machiavelli suddenly drew a sharp breath.

“ _Dio mio,_ ” he murmured.

“What?”

“The king. _François is here.”_

Ezio half fell, half climbed out of the bed and reached the window with a few steps. He pushed Machiavelli aside to get a look at what was going on. And indeed, a richly ornamented carriage had pulled up to the main entrance, where they had arrived less than twelve hours earlier. It felt like twelve days. The courtyard was dimly lit by a few lanterns and buzzing with life. Numerous servants were tending to the horses, carrying bags into the house, or just standing around, looking for work. A plain but elegantly dressed man, presumably a butler of some sorts, hurried out of the house, towards the carriage and opened its door. Both Ezio and Machiavelli held their breath.

The first thing they saw of François I was a shapely leg, and then another, as the king somehow managed to climb gracefully out of the carriage. He wore a silky white hose, red boots and a striped doublet with slit sleeves that reminded Ezio of Leonardo.

_Leonardo!_

He broke away from the spectacular view and grabbed the other man by the shoulders.

“Where is he? How is he?”

Machiavelli carefully removed the hands from his shoulders.

“Leonardo? I told you he’s not doing well. Andrea woke me about half an hour ago. We’ll find him in his bed, I suppose.”

Ezio sprinted for the door, but Machiavelli was faster and caught him by the sleeve.

“What?” Ezio snapped at the taller man.

“I want to see Leonardo as much as you, but I suggest you dress first.”

Ezio looked down. He was still in the long linen shirt from last night, and little else. With a sigh, he grabbed his breeches, slipped into the dusty boots and tucked the shirt in.

“Better?”

Machiavelli spared him an honest answer, barely nodded and left the room, followed closely by Ezio.

Just when they arrived at Leonardo’s chamber, a large group of people squeezed out of the door and past them, towards the main entrance. Ezio had no idea who they were, but they looked quite respectable, clad in fine garments, so he assumed they were authorised to be here.  The men and women seemed to be rather excited, chatting and whispering to each other.

 _“_ _Le Roi! Le Roi est ici!”_

“News travels fast,” commented Machiavelli as they entered the chamber.

Someone had opened the window again, but even the crisp morning breeze could not completely cover the sour smell that lingered in the room. As expected, Leonardo lay in his bed, although Andrea was desperately trying to move him into a sitting position, probably to make it easier for him to eat the steaming bowl of soup on the nightstand. She had already placed numerous pillows behind his back and was now struggling to pull his upper body upwards.

“You wouldn’t think skin and bones can weigh so heavy,” she panted.

Ezio swiftly came to her rescue and together they managed to move Leonardo into a more or less upright position.

“You’re embarrassing me,” said Leonardo, “I am perfectly able to do that mys-“

A spoon full of soup was shoved into his mouth by Andrea.

“In your dreams, _Messere._ Swallow! And don’t think I enjoy this. I hate it as much as you, and besides I’m needed in the kitchens. When will you finally shave that godawful beard of yours? I’m pretty sure I can see some breadcrumbs from yesterday in there…”

“Then go to your kitchen. I am not hungry anyway.”

“Fine, _Messere,_ as you wish. But don’t blame me when you’re hungry again in an hour and the soup is cold,” Andrea snapped.

“I am aware of the thermodynamic conditions in this room, and I am aware that the soup will go cold. I don’t want it. You may leave. And take the soup with you!”

Andrea snatched the bowl and left the room without another word. Leonardo let out a weary sigh and sank deeper into his pillows.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly to Ezio and Machiavelli, who were still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, “we usually get along quite well, but the last weeks have been … challenging. She’s an excellent housekeeper nonetheless, and I will leave her one of my best winter coats.”

“That is very kind of you,” said Machiavelli, and added after a short pause, “How do you feel today?”

“It’s the heart – I can feel it. I don’t dare to move, it hurts quite badly, I have to admit.”

Ezio pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down.

“Why is there no doctor here?” he asked.

“There is no doctor who could tell me anything I don’t already know. I have to go. I know it, and the thought doesn’t frighten me anymore.” He cast an unnecessarily long look at Ezio.

“Did you know the king is here?” asked Machiavelli from across the room.

“Yes, I heard something like that. Let’s hope he hurries. I’d very much like to say goodbye and thank him for his patronage.”

Ezio’s throat felt very tight again. How could Leonardo be so calm? How could that man still be a mystery to him, after so many years? He knew that last night had been a farewell of some sorts, and to sit here now felt horribly wrong, not being able to do anything but wait for the inevitable to happen. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his thighs and fiddled with the blanket for a little while, not knowing what to say, until Leonardo put an end to it and placed his left hand on Ezio’s.

“Ezio, you are making me nervous.” He pointed to a clay cup on the nightstand. “Would you mind fetching me some water?”

Ezio hesitated. He didn’t want to leave, but he was glad that Leonardo seemed to be willing to drink something at last.  

“ _Sí_ ,” he said slowly, and half jokingly added, “as long as you promise me to still be alive when I return.”

Leonardo laughed quietly and Ezio felt the familiar warmth.

“Of course, of course! I don’t intend to die in a room alone with Niccolò Machiavelli. That would make for an awfully dull story to tell.”

“Why, thank you very much,” said Machiavelli and sat down on the chair Ezio had just left. Only slightly reassured, Ezio grabbed the cup, gave the two men a nod and made his way downstairs.

The kitchens were located in the basement of the Château, and when he finally found them, he was surprised by the kindness the kitchen staff showed him, a total stranger, currently quite pitiful in his appearance. Andrea was nowhere to be seen and so he had to make use of his hands and feet to explain what he desired. When he had finally made himself understood, the kitchen boy did not settle with simply filling the cup, but put a whole water jug into a little basket and added a few slices of bread and some grapes while he was at it.

“ _Bon rétablissement pour le Monsieur,_ ” he proclaimed eagerly and handed the basket to Ezio, who nodded and murmured a _grazie_. God only knew what this boy had just told him, but by the sound of it, it couldn’t have been exactly rude.

Basket in his right, he sauntered through the house, and when he arrived at Leonardo’s chamber a few minutes later, he was surprised to find the door closed and guarded by a heavily armed man.

“ _Entrée interdite_ ,” the knight grumbled. Ezio did not need to know any French to understand it.

“Let me in!” he demanded, “I am a friend of the Maestro. _Je suis un … amico-“_

“ _Entrée interdite!_ ”

Ezio’s left hand clenched. Fort the first time in years, he longed for the familiar weight on his wrists. But he was unarmed, and old, and certainly didn’t stand a chance against the armoured guard. Although conversation didn’t seem to lead to a satisfactory solution either, it was his only possibility. He raised the basket.

“ _Pour il … monsieur … da Vinci_ ,” he stuttered and had never felt so utterly foolish in his entire life.

Hell, thirty years ago he would have dealt with this brute (and five additional ones, for that matter) within twenty seconds. The guard didn’t move an inch, but he neither showed the inclination to push Ezio away or to dismiss him from the house altogether. The room being guarded was a safe sign that the king was in there, and he had likely brought an entourage. Machiavelli must also still be in the room, and if Ezio only managed to attract the attention of the people, so the door would be opened and he could explain himself…

Within a split second, he grabbed the ceramic jug and smashed it against the wall right next to the door. It shattered with a _clang a_ nd within another split second, Ezio found himself caught in the guard’s stranglehold.

“ _T’es malade ou quoi?_ ”

Ezio struggled to break free and slammed his feet against the wooden door a few times.

“Let go of me, _imbecille_!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, only to rapidly break into a violent cough.

It worked. The door was torn open and Machiavelli appeared, hands on his hips.

“Ezio! What on earth-“

Ezio was still gasping for air, and luckily Machiavelli understood the situation quickly. He said some calm but stern words to the guard and Ezio was free and on his feet again.

“ _Grazie,_ ” he croaked between to coughs, “This chest infection is going to be the death of me.”

“Listen, Ezio, this is serious,” Machiavelli said and grabbed him by the shoulders. Their eyes met and Ezio knew.

The ground was pulled from under his feet.

Machiavelli steadied him. “He is still with us, Ezio. Slightly. You can say goodbye.”

Ezio swallowed hard. “ _Sí_ , I- _no_ -“

“I don’t want to alarm you, _amico mio_ , but you should probably hurry.”

Ezio nodded, breathed, and entered the room. It was crowded, and the air thick and staler than before. A constant chattering hung in the air, quiet and respectful, yet irritating. Ezio’s gaze wandered through the mass of people and to the huge canopy bed. Leonardo was still in it, of course, and a man knelt in front of it, seemingly praying. Ezio clenched his fists and rushed towards the bed, impatiently pushing the other visitors aside. He would have shoved the praying man away as well, had he not turned his head first, seen the rage and pain in the dark eyes and backed away voluntary. Ezio heard Machiavelli’s muffled voice - _Let me introduce you to the King of France -_ but he did not understand the meaning of the words. He fell to his knees and reached for Leonardo’s hand. It was cold, so cold.

“Leonardo,” he whispered, “I’m right here, _mio caro_ , don’t be scared-“

There was no reaction, except the slightest of clasps in Leonardo’s hand. Without thinking, Ezio put the hand to his forehead, as if to somehow convey his useless words telepathically. How could this be? How was it possible for him to sit here, at the side of the man who had stitched him back together, who had saved his live countless times? And yet he, Ezio Auditore, was damned to passivity? Damned to watch his best friend, his companion, die? He was unable to do anything but press the lifeless hand against his heated forehead.

_Please God, if you exist, do me a favour, just once in my life. Let me talk to him. Let me thank him for his … being. For Heaven’s sake, at least let me cry._

The hand remained cold, and when Ezio realized, he let it go. His chest felt like an open wound. A man stepped up to them, put a finger to Leonardo’s neck and loudly proclaimed something. The whole room fell silent, except for an occasional sob. Ezio slowly lifted his gaze to the familiar, yet so strange face on the dark red pillow.

_He looks beautiful._

Through Leonardo’s half closed lids, he could make out a hint of blue, but no more life.

He slowly turned around, every eye in the room fixed on him.

Outside, a flock of pigeons fluttered past the window.

And Ezio ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading ♥ In case you enjoyed it: good news, in case you didn't: bad news - there will probably be a ~ bonus ~ chapter :)


	4. Chapter 4

He needed to get out, out, these walls were suffocating him, down the stairs, and through the front door, out, just out, and finally he could breathe again. But this wasn’t nearly enough, he was still too close, and so Ezio stormed past the king’s carriage, crossed the courtyard and just ran. That was what he could do best, what he had always done, whenever he’d managed to manoeuvre himself into any sort of trouble. And somehow, things had always worked out. He had rushed through his life like a headless chicken, and when it had felt like aimless running without getting any closer to the destination … how many times Leonardo been there to gently push him into a new direction. To guide and comfort him. And what had he ever done for Leonardo in return? It all felt like nothing now, he had never really checked on him, except when he needed another codex page to be deciphered or another weapon to be built. Hell, if it wasn’t for Machiavelli, he probably wouldn’t even have known about Leonardo’s state. He would happily sit by his fireplace in Firenze now, one arm wrapped around Sofia, Flavia and Marcello on his lap. Completely oblivious.

Last night hadn’t been enough to make up for all the lost years. A hundred nights wouldn’t have done, he saw that now, too late, as usual. Father, Federico, Petruccio, Cristina, Yusuf … he could go on. No goodbye to any of them, he had never brought anything but death and despair to those close to him. And Leonardo, he had been so very different, had lightened up every room he entered, inspired so many, his beautiful mind, his freckles, his smile.

Ezio came to a halt. Had he been twenty years younger, he probably would have gone on forever, or at least for several more miles. Now he just fell to his knees, buried his hands in the dirt of the vineyard he had reached and tried to steady his breathing and to sooth his burning lungs.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Calm and stea-

A violent coughing fit began to shake his body and he grasped for air, hands pressed to the chest. If this was to be his end, he was fine with it. The year was 1519, the 2nd of May, and he was dying in Leonardo da Vinci’s vineyard, not surrounded by friends, but at least by birds and grapes. It could be worse.

_If this is the end, God, I am ready. Come and I will follow you. I will not fight._

The plants before him parted and a blurry figure appeared. Ezio reached out for it. God looked so real - and eerily similar to Machiavelli.

_Who would have thought?_

God pinched him in the cheek.

“Ezio! What are you doing out here? Half of the Château is looking for you, as if they didn’t have enough worries already.”

Ezio blinked slowly and the figure sharpened. It was indeed Niccolò Machiavelli, and he didn’t look god-like at all, quite the contrary, his face sweaty and tunic stained.

“Machiavelli? I think I’m dying…”

“Not today, old man. Get up. Let’s get you inside. You’ve run quite the distance.”

“No,” Ezio was on his feet again, knees still shaky, and leaned on Machiavelli’s shoulder, “I can’t go back in there. I couldn’t- the people, the king, him-”

“Well, I won’t force you to do anything. We can take the back door, get our bags and be on our way back to Firenze in two hours. But I will say this, I have expected us to stay at least until the funeral,” said Machiavelli, as he guided Ezio through the vines, towards the Château.

“When is it?”

“In three or four days I assume. He wants sixty beggars with candles to follow his casket and a spectacle like that needs to be thoroughly organised.”

Ezio couldn’t help but snort. “ _Sì,_ that sounds like him. Let me guess, they will be paid good money for their service?”

“Absolutely. I imagine they won’t have any problems to find enough willing men and women.”

They walked in silence for a while, a burning pain was still lingering somewhere in Ezio’s chest. The merciless sun had almost reached its peak now, and cast its bright rays on the two men wandering through the seemingly endless, luscious vineyard. It was a beautiful day.

“I don’t think I could bear it,” said Ezio finally, “The funeral, I mean.”

“Quite alright. We will depart this afternoon, then.”

“ _Grazie,_ Niccolò.”

“It’s nothing. If anything, us not being here means less stress for Melzi.”

“Melzi?”

Machiavelli stopped and raised an eyebrow at Ezio. “Francesco Melzi? Leonardo’s son?”

Ezio choked. “Leonardo’s _what?”_

“His son. Mind you, adoptive son.” Machiavelli still stared at him in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know about Francesco.”

“ _Dio,_ no. I – how could – is he here?”

“No, he’s currently with his family in Milano. I’ve already sent for him. He’s a bright young man and probably far more capable of managing the estate than that _buono a nulla_ , Salaì.

Ezio felt dizzy again and longed for a bucket filled with cold water to help him clear his mind. What else did he not know? He, who had more than once bragged about his close relationship to _the_ Maestro da Vinci. The realisation that they had so much grown apart crept over him like a dark veil.

A son. He hadn’t mentioned him once last night, not even when Ezio had talked about his own children, and as hard as he tried, he couldn’t imagine a reason why Leonardo would act that way. The behaviour was strange for a man who was always so cordial and honest and passionate about the things he loved. Not that it mattered much now, Leonardo was dead and had taken with him God knows how many secrets.

“Are you alright?” asked Machiavelli, “You look as white as a sheet. We’re almost there now.”

“It’s not fair,” mumbled Ezio.

“ _Scusi?”_

“It’s just not fair.” Ezio stopped. They had indeed reached the end of the vineyard, and he used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Deep inside, he could feel something rising. Something he hadn’t felt since he found Yusuf’s body in Sofia’s bookshop.

“It’s not fair!” he snapped again and threw his hands in the air. _Dio,_ he needed to do something, destroy something, anything, so he grabbed the nearest grapevine and yanked it from the dry soil.

“Not. Fair!” he cried, “I should have died long ago. I’ve hardly done anything to avoid it, have I? I’ve laughed in death’s face time and time again! And I’m still here. And he’s not.”

He threw the plant on the ground.

“Ezio, I-“

“He saved me, Machiavelli. I don’t think you realise how many times he saved me. And all I could ever give him in return was danger and paranoia and maybe an occasional night in his bottega. Always secret, hidden, like outcasts.”

Machiavelli reached out as if to pat him on the shoulder, but Ezio pushed him away. He buried his face in his dirt-stained hands, and finally, he could let go.

“I took him whenever I felt like it, like a whore, and then, as soon as I didn’t need him anymore, I tossed him away,” he said between two sobs, “And I didn’t even send him a letter.”

Machiavelli was at a loss for words, and Ezio couldn’t help but feel a sting of pride at this realisation. Very few people had the honour of experiencing the great philosopher speechless.

“Well,” he stammered at last, “But you were clearly preoccupied. Managing the brotherhood, building a family. And so was he. That is just life. Or did he ever send you a letter?”

Ezio wiped some tears away.

“No, but-“

“So?”

“But he always seemed to be above these things. Banalities, like writing letters and such. There were always more important matters on his mind somehow.”

“And maybe he thought the same of you. And didn’t want to disturb you.”

“But he wouldn’t have. He could never – oh.”

“Thoughts like this don’t get you anywhere,” said Machiavelli, grabbed Ezio’s arm and pulled him towards the sunlit Château. “And you can’t think clearly now. I will ask Andrea to fetch us a soup before we leave.”

They had reached the mansion’s backdoor, and Ezio noticed a wooden bench next to the door, positioned in the house’s shadow.

“Would you mind getting my bags for me?” he asked, “I’d rather not go inside. Oh, and please don’t forget the letter to Sofia, I still need to send it off.”

“Of course,” Machiavelli said, “Take all the time you need. I will ask one of the maids to bring you the soup. That reminds me –“

He pulled something out of his silky tunic. A small, leatherbound book, with dozens of additional, loose pages crammed between the original ones, and a worn out cover, that might once have been of a deep forest green.

“It’s one of his notebooks. Don’t ask me how I managed to acquire it, just accept it. I thought you might like a bit of a _memoria._ ”

He handed the book over to Ezio, who took it almost awestruck and sat down on the bench.

“ _Grazie,”_ he whispered.

Machiavelli shook his head. “ _Nessun problema._ Just tell me if you happen to discover the meaning of life in there, or the reason why we can always see an image of the full moon between the horns of the crescent. That has been bothering me for years.”

Ezio managed a weak smile and nodded as Machiavelli entered the house. Carefully, he flicked through the notebook and marvelled at the crammed pages, filled with mysterious sketches and Leonardo’s curious, mirrored writing. Once, Ezio had been quite good at deciphering it, but now, it took him a while to make sense of the scattered scribbles.

He noticed a page that was completely, from the very top to the bottom, filled with short verses, like aphorisms of some sort. They mainly dealt with the manners of animals, but also human traits and quirks. A few lines that had been squeezed into the bottom left corner caught his attention. A smile crept across his weathered face as he decoded them.

 

 

 

> _The water you touch in a river is the last of that which has passed, and the first of that which is coming. Thus it is with time present._
> 
> _Life, if well spent, is long._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this last (short) chapter of Ezio wallowing in self pity :D  
> Thanks for reading! ♥


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